


warm objects.

by miacroix



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Language, Gen, Introspection, Manipulation, Mental Abuse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-10 23:19:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miacroix/pseuds/miacroix
Summary: "Let's say it's a personal matter." Ocelot said."Go on.""You've probably heard about John in Colombia."A bell.Drin, drin. Obliviously it was about John in Colombia. She read something about it. How did he call them? Militaires Sans Frontières. He would have never being able to pronounce it correctly. John loved to make things difficult.





	1. 00 -  PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> PART 1

we're gonna tremble like California, my love,  
in our separate rooms,  
nailing down stars,  
declaring wars,  
writing on walls that you think about me  
sometimes.  
[ **cara catastrofe** • le luci della centrale elettrica ]

 

They taught us that everything that's broken is a potential weapon: a vase; a mirror; a cup.  
Like the ones that you broke smashing my face on the table of the Mess Hall.  
I should have listened to you, you're right.  
In my holy words and your shattered objects, I should have listened to you.  
Between Colombia and the Caribbean Sea, your voice on the radio, shifted with Bowie's tunes.  
In your hands, my rifles and all the farewell Hemingway has spoken us about.  
In all the trenches we shot down, my war didn't stop even at your feet, when you picked me up in pieces.  
When you asked me to talk to you to keep you awake, with a bullet in your stomach. In my hands yours, blood and panic.  
You never asked me about Groznyj Grad, you didn't want to know.  
It has always astonished me the way you had been able to close her memory between your clenched teeth, had I known how to do it.  
But she was there anyway, in your gestures, in the exact way your eyelid blinked.  
And each time I pointed it out, you killed me with your potsherds made of words and venom.

I’m sure I’ve heard you in my coma.  
You were cursing, perhaps crying.  
You were reading books out loud for me.  
Maybe I’ve dreamt you, a warm object on my back.  
I wanted to chase you like a ship chases a safe harbor after being worn out by the sea.  
And exactly like an harbor embraces a ship, I wanted to be dragged out of the storm.


	2. 01 - UNDER PRESSURE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hover on text for english translation.

  


It took a couple of minutes before Ocelot could properly metabolize the information he received.  
The fingers still wrapped around the handset, listening to the static noise that signaled the end of the conversation.  
As in a picture of Picasso, everything was tidy yet confused.  
The man hung up.  
It was not difficult to predict the consequences that would have sprung from such a drastic stance. The hard part was making ends meet by placing them on the delicate world balance, and at the same time, protecting promises made in the belly of the shark.  
He had to act, now.   
And its action was located far from the three-star hotel in West Berlin where Ocelot was, far from the faint light of the abat-jour giving his face a yellow tone, away from the telephone handset that had spat out aseic words.  
His action had died in 1972 in Paris, driving on Pont Neuf in Paris at a rather high speed. The police had filed the case as a suicide, he, instead, found it a beautiful swansong.  
The car exploded shortly after the incident, impossible to recover the corpse  
He watched the funerals from his office: the empty coffin draped in rose, the long death march up to the Hollywood Forever Cemetery.  
Yet, Ocelot had never believed it; and in six months, he tracked her down.  
She never stayed in a place for more than sixteen weeks, moved little money and half a dozen false identities.  
It was Venezuela this time.  
  
The rainy season.  
She had always found it an odd definition, it reminded her Sylvia Plath’s poetry.  
“ _I'm vertical, but I'd rather be horizontal_."  
Beneath the surface of reality, she could understand its meaning. Lying down on the cold marble pavement of her villa in Santa Monica, waiting for the temperature to drop down.  
It was always too hot in California.  
The store window reflected the blurred colors of the city, a bounce of lights from puddles to glasses; all those blues and red and orange.  
It would have definitely started raining again.  
She liked to stay in the store after closing time, it gave her a wonderful sense of calm.  
Hidden in the closet, the humble and docile Lola was finishing the inventory .  
The wind chimes clinked as the front door moved.  
“Estamos Cerrando. Vuelve Mañana, Chama."  Said the woman, without rushing out of the closet.  
“¿Tan pronto? Tengo que afeitarme. Puedo pagar bien.” A masculine voice, with a marked foreign accent. Lola turned away, shifting the curtain made of beads with her shoulders.  
The first thing the woman noticed was the spurs peeping out of the barber's chair, where the man had comfortably taken his place.  
Adam looked at her, reflecting his gaze in the mirror in front of him. He was dissecting her, that was the exact definition: he was dissecting her slowly as you do with frogs at school; he cut her open with his eyes and studied her wrinkled lips, her neck embedded between the shoulders due to tension, the white knuckle around the scissor she was holding as an arm.  
He's got her where he wanted.  
Lola had lost her words somewhere between the rain and her tight teeth. She was sure that if she tried to speak, he body would have collapsed like a vase hurled against the floor.  
"Relax, I'm not here to hurt you." Said the man, this time in English.  
The woman moved a few steps, approaching the armchair.  
Like a vas-  
_Like a fucking M67 frag granate._  
Are you having fun, Adamska?  
You're playing your favorite game: terror.  
You're the reflex of a sniper's viewfinder, damn it. Maybe one day you end up hanged in a shit hole in China.  
"What do you want?"  
Adam moved his right ankle to his left knee with an elegant gesture. Typical.  
"This is where you’ve ended up?" His gaze bounced from one side of the room to the other, tightening the tone of the voice. "The hairdresser? Self-taught, I suppose. "  
"How long have you been following me?" The scissors still tight in the hand.  
Silence.  
Adam lightens his gaze, makes the armchair roll to look directly into her eyes. To rub his careless expression in her face.  
"For quite some time.”  
Lola is quick to examine the enemy. He's not armed. The grip around the scissors loosens. He can breathe a little more now.  
"I need to shave. Do you mind? " The man crosses his hands under his chin, resting his elbows on the armrests of the seat.  
Fun.  
_You’d squeeze your hands around the noose._  
Your eyes will be bloodshot, the face is bloated and swollen.  
You'd be elegant even in death.  
Lola pushed the armchair back to the mirror, then she pulled the drawer under the shelf on the right side of the mirror, and slipped one long, tapered hand inside to extract the razor.  
With the brush soiled with foam, the woman began to caress the face of man.  
So close as to be able to feel the scent of expensive cologne, so close to feel his breath on her face, to study his angular face, the skin pulled on the cheek as high as the Ural.  
There is something that wraps her shoulders and forces her to lean inward like a deck of cards in the hand of a dealer.  
Thumbs pressed between her shoulder blades.  
Between the fingers, the razor opens in a click.  
“Well, _Lola."_ He started.  
Lola wasn't her real name, of course it wasn’t. Even Monika wasn’t, or Francine. Her name was somewhere in the CIA's buried documents, whispered in ears, tucked in uniforms’ pockets.  
"Stand still."  
And the razor slipped on his neck meticulously.  
It was Adam’s thing.  
With a razor ready to cut off his carotid, he had the presumption of acting like a big shot.  
"Venezuela looks good on you, y'know? The heat, the music, the coffee... It _fits_ you. " He went on, tapping with his forefinger the circle-shaped earring to make it dangling from Lola’s lobe.  
The woman moved her gaze towards the gesture, now her thumb on her shoulder blades was pressing like a nail. His dumb, fake, southern accent.  
"I told you to stay still."  
"Six different ids. How much they’ve changed you, nh? Aren't you tired of running away? "  
"It’s none of your shit."  
"It is since the moment I’ve found you."  
Adam was a fucking hound. Make him sniff a dead hen and he’ll bring you the farmer.  
"Look, I'm here to make you an offer." He adjusts his weight on the char, "What you want now is a balance. Never have to flee again. "  
“Mmpf. What does he want now? "  
"He has nothing to do with it."  
Hesitation.  
Lola slammed her long lashes, pulling the razor away from is face.  
Now she was crucifying him with her gaze, as she came back straight and crossed her arms.  
"You've probably heard about John in Colombia."  
A bell.  
Drin, drin. Obliviously it was about John in Colombia. She read something about it. How did he call them? Militaires Sans Frontières. He would have never being able to spell it correctly. John loved to make things difficult.  
"There you will be safe."  
A nice way to say " _As long as you're there and help me, no problem. I figured out where you're working standing on the other side of the world, where will you hide? "_  
The woman leaned her back in the mirror, sighing.  
Accept, and prepare to take the rifle for the umpteenth war-possessed.  
Do not accept, and expect Cipher’s men knocking on your door before slamming it open. He was still a gentleman, after all.  
She would have died in any case, probably.  
"Take a few days to think about it. I will be in town for the weekend " finished Adam, pressing the towel against the skin still irritated, to remove the remnants of shaving foam.  
"I guess the problem is not keeping in touch."  
The man smirked. "No."  
Then he got up, and walked out of the shop without turning back.  
He varnished, like a good ghost would do. Was he even there?

  
“ _I'm vertical, but I'd rather be horizontal. "_  
Now I'd rather be a land mine to blow you up like the glass blew when Adam closed the door behind his shoulder. I'd rather be horizontal because I'd be underground and I shouldn't watch my death sentence cross the street, looking to right and left to avoid getting hit by a car.  
I'd rather be horizontal because the problem would be solved.  
It's always about John, John, John.  
He’s _Horizontal_ , as in a poignant poem by Sylvia Plath. Lying on his belly, binoculars to monitor everything except his life.  
Who do you think you are?  
Jesus Christ who immolates himself for a higher cause?  
If he is the risen Jesus, I am Saint Thomas and I’m going to stick my lacquered nails in all of his wounds to see if he still bleeds.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yup, a really short introduction starring a young ocelot screaming 'i wanna be a cowboy™" and Sylvia Plath. The poem i refer to is "I am vertical". (Crossing the water, 1971)  
> As always, these chapters are written in my mothertongue then translated into english, so please, if you spot any mistake leave a comment!  
> thank you for the kudos!

**Author's Note:**

> All of the chapters are written in my mothertongue and then translated into english, so if you spot some mistakes, please leave a comment!  
> Updates will be slow, but i'll try to stick with it in two weeks or so.


End file.
